The End of an Era
by strawberrywine17
Summary: John had never left him. Been exasperated with him, yes, slept at someone else's house for a night or two sometimes, most definitely, but he had never left. Not for certain. Not without the promise of coming home. Not until now. Oh, but it wasn't home anymore, was it? Sherlock Holmes was falling apart. And no one was left to pick up the pieces. / Oneshot, mentions of suicide.


_A/N- Please note that this is NOT a happy fic! It's actually very depressing, and it has very explicit suicidal thoughts. Take care when/after reading, especially if things like depression, anxiety, or panic attacks affect you._

 _Enjoy, and don't forget to review!_

* * *

He had left the wedding early. The wedding had been four days ago. He hadn't left the flat in four days.

Sherlock's fingers shook as they curled around a mug of coffee, as though he was going through withdrawals again. In all fairness, it wouldn't be that far from the truth. John was gone; marriage changed people. Already he could see that that was true. The day after the wedding John and Mary had boarded a plane, supplied with enough cash to get them anything they desired on their honeymoon to Italy, a condition commissioned by Sherlock through Mycroft. Four days, and throughout all that time, Sherlock had only received one measly text.

He didn't lift the mug as his other hand picked up his phone and checked it again, eyes skimming over the messages, hoping against hope that somehow he'd simply missed a message despite keeping the device fully charged with the volume at the highest setting, always in his right front pocket. But, just like always, there was nothing there except that one message.

We've landed in Rome. Take care of yourself or I'll be calling, and we'll see you in two weeks. -JW

Taking care of himself was not exactly the words he'd use to describe his current state. The coffee in the mug was his third cup- and subsequently one of the only thing he'd ingested since the happy couple had taken off. A few biscuits had disappeared past his lips but not many, his body often deciding he was too queasy to attempt it whenever he strayed near the cupboard that housed them. His hair was greasy and matted from lack of a bath for almost the same amount of time, and he noted with some quiet realization that he hadn't changed out of the pajamas he'd gone to sleep in three nights ago.

Not that Sherlock really cared. In fact, caring was pretty much the opposite of his current emotional state. Apathy, complete and utter apathy, had set in quickly after the wedding. There had been a spark of hope in his chest that John might return and sit in his chair again; that for whatever reason, Mary and John would move in, wouldn't leave him there alone, wouldn't abandon him. Looking back on it, it was a stupid idea. Of course John wouldn't come back. He and Mary had their own flat together. There was no reason for them to leave it and their domesticity to come back to the whirlwind of hell on Baker Street.

There was no reason for John to come back. No reason for him to stay. No reason to continue caring.

The first night, after leaving the wedding early, Sherlock had drowned himself in the stores of alcohol that John had managed to gather up in their cupboards. It had increased significantly from what he remembered before his fall. It was almost worrying- until the detective reminded himself that John would have stayed there for awhile. Getting a flat was not usually a deal made in one day. His worry had fallen away (since John was okay now, wasn't it? Everything was alright) and the ugliest of appreciation towards that unfortunate situation grew- though the latter disappeared when he was halfway through his third bottle and subsequently forgot everything after that. Even now, if he concentrated hard enough, he could deduce the faint scent of the drinks, the stench clinging to his leather chair. There wasn't exactly a need to deduce he'd been drinking, though… All one had to do to know it was to look beside that same chair. The empty bottles had yet to be cleaned up.

Sherlock Holmes was falling apart.

And no one was left to pick up the pieces.

He had become so accustomed to it. So used to John following around after him, making comments, pulling him from his head, keeping him sane. For years they had been like that, Sherlock keeping John entertained and John keeping Sherlock sane. Two years away from the man did nothing to interrupt this exchange. Though both were much more desperate and twisted from the circumstances, that had never changed. And then he had come back; John had given his forgiveness and they settled into some semblance of the normal routine again, bar the lack of his residence at the flat. Sherlock couldn't even fault Mary for being engaged to his former flatmate because she seemed to get it. She understood. And that was good.

But the wedding… The wedding had taken it all away. Mrs. Hudson hadn't helped at all, not in the slightest. Her words kept echoing in his head, knocking painfully against the walls of his skull, buzzing like a carrion bird above a soon-to-be carcass. The end of an era. The end of an era. But only one part of the phrase stuck out to him.

The end.

This was the end.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt as though he couldn't breathe. His chest clenched up tight; had he have eaten anything, he was absolutely sure that he would have expelled it as quickly as possible. This was well and truly the end. The fall hadn't been the last nail in the coffin. Neither had been Mary. The wedding, though- the wedding, the rings and the vows and the speech and the almost-murder and the honeymoon- that had been the end.

His fingers fell from the mug to grasp at his chest, nails digging into his own skin, crumpling up the fabric. Air, he reminded himself. He needed air. This wasn't the first time it had happened to him. In fact, since the departure of the plane, Sherlock had found that these moments were coming increasingly often. Moments, episodes, where he gasped and panted and clutched his chest, where the world seemed to tilt and blur at the edges, where his heart beat so hard he thought his ribs were to break. Should Sherlock have actually put the effort into it, he might have recognized them as panic attacks. Even with a name, it was hard not to believe that they were going to kill him, right then and there.

Not that he would be too terribly upset over that.

Probably the only reason Sherlock was not currently in a morgue from an overdose was his complete and utter lack of will to leave the flat. There were no drugs left inside, John, Lestrade, and even Sherlock himself had seen to that. A promise was a promise after all- and to those two people, the detective feared that he would never run a day without guilt should he break a promise like that.

He was shaking, every limb, every inch of him trembling as the panic attack began to die down. Exhaustion reached cold fingers into his chest, dead eyes hardly having the strength to pan over the table. Every breath was stuttering. Though the iron grip on his lungs faded away, he still could only managed gulps of air at a time, head woozy and light.

The cup of coffee was still there. The only reason it wasn't tea was because he'd run out of bags and, once again, had not left the flat in days. The sugarless, bitter taste was so different than to how he usually took it; Sherlock had a sweet tooth that ascended every known source of food. If it wasn't sweet, he wasn't interested (excluding Chinese and Thai). But making coffee already expended what energy he could muster every few hours. Adding sugar was one more task that simply crossed the line regarding his abilities. Unfortunately that little fact only seemed to serve as yet another reminder.

The way he was drinking the coffee was the way John took it. No sugar. Of course, he'd been aware of the fact since he'd brewed his own first cup. In that moment, though, with all the adrenaline that chased tremors through his body from the panic attack, with all the anger and the hatred and the sadness that had accumulated since the wedding, he felt the hottest flash of fury rush through him.

Why did everything have to remind him of John?

Standing abruptly, his fingers curled around the cup. As quickly as they did they then let go, his arm recoiling and then surging forward. He'd barely registered that he was, in fact, throwing the very full mug before it crashed into the wall. The sound of it was terribly loud in his ears, coffee splattering everywhere, the mug shattering into pieces. He vaguely wished he hadn't just barely sat down with it; the action hadn't been very calculated and intense stinging surged up his hand as he realized the scorching liquid had splashed back onto his skin. If John had been there, he would have been fetching the first aide kit (the one he made himself, not the store bought ones, because apparently those weren't 'Sherlock-grade') and on his way to treat them.

Familiarity hit so hard that for a moment he was surprised when there was no curses, no irritated but worried shouts, no thumping of footsteps disappearing into or returning from the bathroom. Two years had been enough to break the habit, of course, but the flat surrounding him had brought everything roaring back. Of course it did. The universe hated him too much for it to do anything else.

A sob tried to force his chest to seize up, but he wouldn't. Despite everything, his eyes had stayed dry. Ugly purple rings hung under them, yes, but dry. He wasn't planning on crying now. Or ever, if he could manage it. So Sherlock restrained it, keeping it under control, grabbing the wrist of the affected hand to pull it to his face and inspect. The burns were somewhere between first and second degree; he wouldn't be able to know for certain until the white splotches decided on whether they would fill with pus or not.

At the sight of the injury, all the energy drained away. He swayed dangerously; reaching out, he grasped the edge of the table, letting the pain from the action spark up his arm, not even trying to ignore it. The detective let it come. Welcomed it, even. At least it was a good distraction.

Distractions. How long had he been chasing a distraction? How many different ways had he found it, how many deadly situations had he been in, how many people had been involved in his wish to not be bored? Too many to count, he was sure. And yet, John had never left him. Been exasperated with him, yes, slept at someone else's house for a night or two sometimes, most definitely, but he had never left. Not for certain. Not without the promise of coming home. Not until now.

Oh, but it wasn't home anymore, was it?

Sherlock could move through this flat with his eyes closed. He knew where everything was, he could traverse it in his sleep, could find anything he needed in the shortest of times. And yet, it was no longer home. It was just a house. Just a flat. Just somewhere that he could lock the doors and shut the blinds and let himself fall apart without anyone seeing. Without anyone getting suspicious. It was just a place, just like everywhere else. A plane to exist on without holding any sort of meaning to it.

Sherlock was exhausted.

And then he had an idea.

The roar of television snow took up every crack in his thoughts. Radio interference; it was the best way to describe it. With no further speculation on the matter, Sherlock seemed to glide across the floor, over to John's chair. He breathed deeply but… there was no lingering scent. No gun oil, no musky cologne and no hint of the forest glades that always came to mind when the detective stood near enough to him. It was all gone. As though John had never been there. But Sherlock- Sherlock knew better.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself down into the seat. It felt oh so wrong. This was John's seat. But then again, what did it matter? John was gone. Long piano fingers reached between the cushion of the arm of the chair, digging deeper, searching until at last-!

The metal was heavy in his hand. Heavy, but faintly warm from where it had been tucked, warmer than his own skin. He pulled the gun from the crack. The only reason John had left it instead of taking it on the honeymoon was because he had insisted that Sherlock needed something to defend himself with since he had yet to buy his own. That, and Sherlock had also managed to force Mycroft to ensure John and Mary would be safe, operatives and security keeping them from harm at all times. He had assured his former flatmate that he hadn't needed it, that it was silly of him to be so sentimental and so worried. Now, however, a dull pang of gratitude pinched at his heart.

With deft precision, he pulled out the clip and inspected the inside. Sure enough, it was completely loaded; a wicked grin curled up his lips, echoing something ghastly, his face little more than a gaunt skeleton in the mirror above the mantle. He hadn't lost a lot of weight, no, but in that moment, he could almost imagine that he had. That his flesh was paling and turning white, black hair matted against porcelain delicate skin. That the moonlight reflected off of glistening wet red would be the only color they'd find upon his body, and his brilliant blue eyes that would be flung open in surprise despite the deliberate act would be so muted that it would seem he had always been a doll instead of a person.

There was no tremble in his hands as Sherlock turned off the safety. He cocked the gun and peered at it, turning it over and over, finger off the trigger, then on again; pointed at his chest, then the ceiling, the window, the mirror, then back again to him.

After all, what was the point of it anymore? John was gone. Lestrade came around for cases. Mrs. Hudson kept to herself unless there was a client; there hadn't been a client in what felt like ages. Mycroft loved him, sure, but what use was love when nobody showed it?

The flat was so quiet.

The words that should have been floating around in his head were missing. The hisses, the taunts, the insults. The scenarios and the self doubts that had almost taken him before. The ones that had led him down the path to drugs time and time again, the shame and the humiliation and the anxiety and the depression and the scorn and the-

But no. There was none of that.

It was so quiet.

There's a proper time to die, isn't there? A lump passed his throat as he swallowed it. Sholto's words, his own voice. Oh, how right the man had been. How unbelievably right. And one should embrace it when it comes. ...Like a soldier. That eerie smile only curled up more, a rancid, rotten thing. And then came his own words.

Of course one should.

He barely registered that the warm metal had turned cold and that the muzzle touched the faint swell of his temple. Dull eyes roved over the chair across from him- his own chair. Empty. Forgotten. But that was alright, wasn't it? It wasn't him that mattered. Yes, he solved murders- but that was all. What use was a puzzle solver if nothing of worth came out of it? John was the one that mattered. He was the one that saved the life. He was the one that made a difference. He was the one that had taken a former drug addict with a proclivity to returning to the old habit, a man with no life, no desires, no will to live, and had practically given him the air to breathe with now. He couldn't imagine life without someone sitting in this chair like John had for so many years. And, considering the circumstances, he supposed he didn't have to.

For two years, Sherlock had lived without John. No, not live- he had existed. There was a difference. Now, John was gone; and Sherlock had no intention of ever simply existing like that again. Never again.

His eyes fluttered shut. It was the calmest he could ever remember being. No thoughts. No worries. No cases. No pain. Just… Calm. His finger tightened on the trigger.

We wouldn't do that, would we, you and me?

Dammit! Sherlock's eyes startled open. He blinked, unseeing, the world around him dissolved like a seltzer in a glass of water. Now wasn't the time. He'd had peace, blissful, quiet, almost eternal peace. And then his mind had to go and ruin that for him.

We would NEVER do that to John Watson.

For a moment, he hesitated. His own words, of course it would be his own words. The gun, John's gun, lowered until it cleared his head, off of his skin and out of the line of trajectory. Guilt gnawed in his stomach. What was he doing? He would leave the world just because John was leaving him? No… It was something else. It was because he was nothing without John Hamish Watson. Absolutely nothing. The gun trembled in his grip but once again he raised it, pushing the barrel to his head, hard enough that it actually stung from the pressure. Another steadying breath, his eyes closed once again, and then-

You're letting him down, Sherlock.

"NO!"

Sherlock tilted the gun so that he could grasp his head. He was trembling, shaking all over, pulling and ripping at his hair till several strands came loose with dull notes of pain across his scalp. He wanted this. He needed this. So why was his brain supplying him with something else? Why was the only thing he could see be John's face when he walked in on the scene? Why couldn't he imagine anything other than the absolute horror that would overtake the soldier, the way his knees would crack as he hit the floor, the old blood that would cover his hands, the way tears would run down his face as he clenched a cold, dead detective to his chest?

Why couldn't he stop thinking?

He stood so suddenly that a wave of dizziness washed over him. A broken cry ripped from Sherlock's throat as he threw the gun, not giving a damn whether it made the weapon go off or not. The lack of the sound of a shot seemed to fill the flat, as though it was the universe's answer to why.

Wrong day to die.

Sherlock didn't know how long he stood there. Panting, gasping, his raw eyes stared himself down in that bloody mirror. He just couldn't do this. He could never do this to John. Never for real. No matter how much it hurt.

He found his phone nestled in the pocket of his pants. Trembling as he was, it took him a few moments to type out a message, an even longer pause threatening to ruin it all before he pressed send. The phone dropped to the floor and Sherlock collapsed into his own chair, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around himself so tightly that he was half sure he would have bruises from where his fingertips pressed into his ribs.

He felt terrible for sending such a message, for drawing the one other man that cared so much about him away from his work or his home or wherever he was for the night. Sherlock wasn't stupid; he knew that Greg Lestrade would drop anything for him. It almost made him feel stupid for discounting the man so early on in his thoughts, but then again, he knew from experience that this wasn't the first time his mind had managed to convince him that it would be to the benefit of everyone should he be gone. He certainly hoped it was the last, but held no faith in the motion.

Dread (and the faintest bit of relief, should he be honest with himself) curled in his gut as there was an answering ping. From where he was, he could see the screen light up, illuminating the words.

Danger night. Hurry. Please. -SH

On my way. -GL

Sherlock had stated in his speech that he had been rescued by his former flatmate in so many ways, but it wasn't until now that he really understood what that meant. It had taken years and separation and loss and heartbreak to see it, but now he did. Yes, he could solve a puzzle. He could solve any crime, any slight against the law. Sherlock Holmes could solve- could cause his own- murder.

But it took John Watson- even just the thought of him -to save a life.


End file.
